


Flirting in Latin & Other Ill-Advised Activities

by LienidQueen



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Bar/Pub, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, And we're going to pretty much ignore S5, Bartender/History Teacher!Bellamy, F/M, Law Student!Clarke, Raven's salty, Slow Burn, So strap in., the Bar!AU you've been waiting for
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-09
Updated: 2019-01-23
Packaged: 2019-07-10 05:55:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,696
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15943154
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LienidQueen/pseuds/LienidQueen
Summary: Clarke is trying to study for her LSATs, but if Raven keeps dragging her to the bar to study, she's not going to get much studying done. Fortunately, she meets the new bartender, a handsome but nerdy history teacher by day, who is exactly not what she needs at the moment.But maybe that means he's exactly what she needs.Bar!AU with most of the gang, give it time :)





	1. Singing on Pool Tables

The LSATs are hard. Studying for the LSATS is really fucking hard. But do you know what’s the hardest thing of them all? Trying to study for your LSAT at the far end of a grungy dive bar while your friend stands on the pool table belting “Sweet Caroline”.

Granted, this was not an uncommon occurrence, for neither The Dropship nor Clarke’s friend Jasper. Ever since their college days, Jasper was always an irrefutable lightweight, despite massive alcohol consumption on a regular basis. At first, Clarke and her gang would try anything to mitigate the alcohol, going so far as to force-feed him White Castle sliders one unfortunate Friday night, but since graduation they had left him to his own devices.

So there he was, Jasper Calrissian Jordan, singing on a pool table at ten pm on a Thursday, using his cue as the mic stand for his Neil Diamond turn. Because the world hated Clarke much more than she deserved, they were in Dorchester, Massachusetts, so of course the other bar patrons were indulging him. Their cheers only fueled Jasper’s mania, and he pulled his alarmed girlfriend Maya up onto the table with him. As a molecular biologist, she didn’t really “do” crowds, but she played along as best she could before she could safely make her descent.

Now, it was not Clarke’s negligence towards her test that had her studying in a bar. Truly, she would have been more successful in her apartment, and was comfortably studying there with a cup of coffee in hand, redoing the logical reasoning section of her practice book to her heart’s content, when her best friend Raven summoned her to the bar. And because she is a good friend, and they lived two blocks from the place, she packed up her study books and another thermos of coffee and trudged down the street.

Raven Reyes is a genius. That first must be said. She ran laps around the Engineering and Physics departments at school, graduating with an unheard-of triple major in Astrophysics, Mechanical Engineering, and Biomechanics, and smoking the entrance exams to every doctoral program in the country. She was going to run the world one day. But as a combined masters/doctoral candidate with two separate specialties at the Massachusetts Institute of Technology in this day and age, she was also in desperate need of a job. Any in-field opportunity either conflicted with her own endeavors or was, in her words, “run by idiot men”.

So while she could probably be a technological celebrity that would knock Elon Musk off his self-constructed pedestal with her designs for a bionic limb brace modeled after the one she had built for her leg, she also spent most evenings tending bar at The Dropship Tavern in Dorchester and keeping her idiot friends from killing themselves doing stupid shit.

Like now, for example.

“Jasper, you get your ass off of that table right now!” Raven hollered over her shoulder as she measured a whiskey sour on the bar back. “You have broken the light above you three times with your big-ass head and you don’t have money to replace it again!”

It was true. The floral lamp that swayed above the pool table had been a victim of Jasper’s sing-alongs frequently in the past couple months. The most recent time was when Murphy got very drunk after Emori broke up with him, _again_ , and told Jasper he looked like a young Keith Richards. Jasper hadn’t let him forget it since.

“You know he doesn’t listen to you,” Clarke reminded her, looking up from her workbook. Raven’s admonishment only seemed to spur him on.

Raven waved a hand at her as she passed. “He will. Or he’ll fall off the damn table like last time and have to get checked for a concussion. It’s entirely up to him.”

Clarke snorted. That had been an odd call to her mother. But her mom only lived twenty minutes away and was a renowned trauma surgeon, so it shouldn’t have surprised Abby Griffin to receive such a call. And Jasper was her favorite of Clarke’s friends, for some inexplicable reason. The woman doted on him every time he visited, and Abby Griffin is not the kind of person who dotes.

“And where’s Monty? Isn’t he supposed to be watching that idiot?”

“I’m right here, and I’m his best friend, not his keeper,” Monty said, appearing over Clarke’s shoulder to steal a swig of her beer. “Besides, I’m technically on a date with Harper right now, so I can’t watch him.”

“Technically?” Harper appeared over Clarke’s other shoulder, leaning over the bar to stare at her boyfriend incredulously.

Monty stuttered. “What I meant was, I just mean, you know what I mean. I can’t watch him!”

“Well I’m _working_ ,” Raven insisted, slamming a glass onto the bartop for emphasis and sliding it along the slippery passage toward its owner. Both Monty and Raven looked at Clarke expectantly.

“Well I’m studying!” Clarke retorted indignantly. “You’re both already in your programs. I still have to qualify for mine!”

That made Raven snort. “Your godfather is a Supreme Court Justice, and your mother’s boyfriend is the head of admissions at Harvard Law. I think you’ll be fine.”

It was true. Marcus had all but offered her a spot in the fall class at Christmas. But Clarke wanted to earn it. She wanted to know that she made it in on her own, not just with her mother’s boyfriend’s help. Or with the ridiculous recommendation letter Uncle Thelonius wrote her. Hence, the workbook. In a bar. On a Thursday evening.

Clarke took a sip of her beer and returned to her workbook. “I have studying to do. And by the sound of it, Jasper’s due for his grand finale, so someone should be over there when it goes horribly wrong.”

At that instant, the music swelled and there was a crash. The drunk backup singers went silent, and when Clarke turned, she saw Jasper had stepped off the table and fallen into the arms of one of the bystanders.

“What is going on?” a voice called to Clarke’s left, from the direction of the back room.

Indra LeBois emerged from the curtained doorway, striking fear into even the regulars of the bar as the Dropship’s steely owner. She was barely average height, with close-cropped hair shadowing the top of her head and four different sets of gold and copper earrings swinging from her ears. It was the frozen fire in her eyes that struck the whole room silent, staring out at the tipsy patrons. Clarke always liked to imagine that in another life Indra had been a warrior like Xena or Wonder Woman. Indra gave off this vibe that she should be holding a spear and wearing facepaint derived from the blood of her enemies. In the days of yore, it may have been the men coming to steal her tribe’s land or the kingdom’s political adversary, but more recently it was anyone who disturbed the peace of The Dropship. And oftentimes, recently, it was Jasper.

With the evening’s entertainment behind them, the onlookers scattered through the bar, leaving the guy who caught Jasper holding the metaphorical bag. As he turned, Clarke took a moment to admire the ripple of muscle in his back from holding Jasper bridal-style, and the long, curly mop of onyx hair ruffling with the motion of his head. If not for the occupant in his arms, he would make a fine cover for the bodice-ripping novels that Raven liked to gift Clarke on all the high holy days. All he needed was the billowing shirt and a gold hoop earring and he would be perfect for the front of _Our Lady’s Honor_ , were it not for the fact that the person in his arms was not a swooning virgin, but Clarke’s gangly, drunk friend.

“Did someone lose this?” he asked the room, lifting Jasper ever so slightly in indication and simultaneously flexing his unfair biceps. In the aftermath of Jasper’s fall, Maya had vanished, leaving no one to claim Jasper.

Clarke looked at Raven, who pointed to the bar back as if to say, _I’m working. Not my problem_. A turn to Monty yielded a similar result, with the reserved man pointing to Harper and wandering into the crush of bodies. Clarke wouldn’t see the two of them for a while.

Which left her. Clarke downed the rest of her coffee, snapped closed her LSAT workbook, and reluctantly raised her hand.

“Over here,” she muttered, and Mr. Bodice-Ripper turned to her. “Sorry Indra,” she told the impatient landlady, who merely huffed and returned to the back. Clarke swore she was muttering in French something horrid as she went.

The mysterious man dropped Jasper on the stool next to her, and Jasper dutifully picked up the glass of water Raven offered.

“I was supposed to be watching him, sorry,” she said, feeling like she needed to apologize. For what, she wasn’t quite sure, since Jasper wasn’t her ill-behaved child.

“Keep a better eye on him next time. I won’t always be around to catch him,” the stranger cautioned, and Clarke was knocked back by the timbre of his voice. The honey resin of his tone mixed with the gravelly enunciation of his speech to create a sound so enchanting Clarke was pretty sure she passed out in the middle of his sentence. More likely she just blanked for several moments, staring at the handsome bastard, not saying anything.

Clarke coughed to clear her head. “It’s hard to keep track of your drunk friends when you’re trying to study for your LSATs at the same time.”

“ _Hanniabl ad portas_ , princess. He could actually have been hurt,” Sonic Fudge replied.

Now Clarke was a little bit impressed, and a little annoyed. After showing off his physical prowess, protecting the lives of drunk idiots everywhere, he has the gall to start lecturing her in Latin. Well, two can play at this game. At least, they can when the woman’s godfather insisted she knew Latin.

“Yeah, well, _curam agere possit,_ dude, and _ex nihilo nihil fit_. Gotta study some time,” Clarke retorted, returning to her workbook once more and leaving Mr. Tall-Dark-and-Gravelly staring at her in what she could only assume was astonishment. Not many men her age could handle her fluent Latin, especially in a drinking establishment.

“ _Captiosus puella_ ,” he smirked. His verbal volley lit something beneath her skin. She couldn’t help but answer back.

“You have no idea.”

“Are you two done?” Raven asked loudly, breaking their cerebral connection and making Clarke blush. No one should have seen that substantially geeky exchange. She nodded, rolling her eyes only slightly.

“Good. Clarke, meet Bellamy. Bellamy, Clarke. Clarke’s my roommate, future Harvard Law Student and all-around smarty-pants. Bellamy’s a… I don’t remember, English teacher? Indra just hired Bellamy as the new bartender after Kyle left Boston last week to go find himself or whatever. I’m sure you’ll see a lot of each other, so don’t kill each other. Good?”

Clarke and Bellamy nodded in unison at Raven, who returned with a curt head bob and swiftly left in search of empty glasses to clear. Leaving Clarke (and a heavily-inebriated Jasper, who Clarke had basically forgotten was there) with Mr. Handsome, wait, _Bellamy_.

“Clarke Griffin,” she introduced herself, thrusting out her hand. He took it, and she was caught in his eyes. They were boa constrictors, wrapping around her and squeezing tight, smooth calm radiating from his deep eyes and quirked smile.

“Bellamy Blake,” he returned, and they stood there, minutely shaking each other’s hand as they stared into each other’s eyes.

 _This guy is magnificent_ , Clarke thought, unbidden. She immediately admonished herself for being so cliché. Sure, it had been a minute since she had held the attention of anyone, but that was no excuse for ogling. Especially when she had studying to do. She turned to her book.

“Ah. I see I can’t tear you away from your studying. The next answer’s D, by the way,” he noted.

“Why you—“ But Clarke wasn’t able to properly admonish him for being so nosy, because when she turned around he was already disappearing into the throng of people.

“ _Carpe Noctem_ , princess,” he called over his shoulder, and her face flushed. She turned back to her book, only to find that he was correct. The next answer was D.

At this moment, Jasper stirred in the chair next to her. “Shit,” he grumbled.

_Precisely._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!
> 
> Since most of us are not Latin Scholars, here's a cheat sheet for their little exchange:
> 
> Hanniabl ad portas: Hannibal is at the gates (an old turn of phrase to warn children)  
> Curam agree possit: He can take care of himself  
> Ex nihilo nihil fit: Nothing comes from nothing  
> Captiosus puella: Smart girl.  
> Carpe Noctem: Seize the night
> 
> As always, kudos and review. See ya soon!


	2. Inviting Randos to Margarita Monday

That night after they returned home, it took Raven all of three minutes before she started on Clarke about Bellamy.

“I suppose you’ll be hanging out at Dropship more often now, right?” Raven asked, wiggling her eyebrows in a ridiculous fashion. Clarke could only assume that she was attempting to be suggestive, but about what, she wasn’t sure.

She had spent the remainder of her evening after Jasper’s, _display_ , tucking into her workbook. Before the end of the night she had finished another of the practice tests in her book and gotten a 160. Granted, it was only on the multiple choice because she couldn’t possibly judge her own written section. She would have to send that part to Uncle Thelonius’ son Wells, four years her senior and already kicking ass in the Southern District as one of the DA’s newest recruits. If anyone would be suited to judge her written portion and be trusted to be honest, it was Wells. He was practically family, even though they didn’t see much of each other lately.

So Clarke had been so engrossed in her practice exam that she didn’t notice the bar at all the rest of the night. Daenerys Targaryen herself could have landed on the roof with her dragon and Clarke wouldn’t have been aware.

“What are you talking about?” she asked absently, unpacking her stuffed messenger bag to repack it marginally more organized. Clarke swore she hadn’t left her pencil case at the bar, but she still couldn’t find it.

“Don’t be coy,” Raven admonished, doing that weird thing with her eyebrows again, “you know, _Bellamy_.” She savored his name like a particularly delicious chocolate. To Clarke it was all a bit much.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. I met him for like three minutes and most of that time he spent insulting me in Latin,” Clarke scoffed, throwing her notebook at Raven’s head. Underhanded, or course, but it had a hard cover. Raven dodged easily, cackling and flopping onto the couch.

“Ah, Latin,” she sighed fondly, “the seduction of nerds.”

“Shut up.” Clarke knew she was being childish, but in her defense... Raven started it.

“You gotta be open to the possibilities, Clarke,” Raven reminded, becoming uncharacteristically serious. “This isn’t you being messed up about, you know--”

Clarke cut her off. “No. Of course not. Jesus, Rae, I’m not a delicate flower.”

“Good,” Raven brightened a few watts, “Because Finn was a total dick-o-saurus and Lexa had a stick up her ass. Third time’s the charm?”

“Whatever.” Now was not the time to discuss this. Clarke needed to focus on her damn LSAT practice tests and studying for the most important exam of her post-graduate career. The test was in a month, and there was no way that she had any kind of time for some floppy-haired, Latin-fluent bartender who rescued damsels and drunk friends in one swoop. She could have a social life soon. December, maybe. Probably January. After the test.

“So you’re good with Bellamy? You don’t detest him?” Raven pressed again, much to Clarke’s annoyance. If she hadn’t already tossed her ammo she would have thrown another book at Raven’s head.

“Detest him? What am I, Elizabeth Bennet?” Clarke snarked back. “I’m fine. I’m a big girl. _Bellamy_ is going to have to try a little harder than that to throw me.”

“Good!” Raven brightened, popping up to standing, “because I invited him to come to Marg Monday. No take backs.”

“You what?!”

Clarke’s best friend was a dead woman. No one came to Marg Mondays unannounced. There were forums for such things. When Monty tried to first bring Harper they practically held confirmation hearings, for Christ’s sake. People weren’t just _invited_ to Marg Mondays. Clarke had been required to submit a signed petition for Wells to attend because Murphy and Raven were inconsiderate jackasses, but _Bellamy waltzes right in_? To a sacred friendship ritual?

This was inconcievable. This was unconscionable. The only thing keeping Clarke from vaulting over the back of the couch and putting Raven in a headlock was the knowledge that Raven could kick her ass.

“I’m bringing him to Marg Monday,” repeated Raven, smirking. She was enjoying this, tourturing Clarke. That only meant that Raven was going to get it later. Clarke didn’t know what it would be yet, but as Raven herself liked to say, there is no timetable on revenge.

* * *

On Monday, the gang gathered at _La Tierra_ , a glorious Mexican hole-in-the-wall in Downtown Crossing. Rather, it looked like a hole-in-the-wall from the outset, with only an alley as an entrance, but the minute you stepped down the bricked walkway between the beautician school and the bookstore, the end opened up to reveal a beautiful patio strung with lanterns and mismatched furniture, covered by a prism of greenhouse glass. Even on the most horrid of rainy days, you could still sit on the patio drinking a cocktail and throwing chips at your friends. Which is usually what the gang did, rain or shine.

They started back when Raven, Clarke, and Monty were all in their latter years at undergrad, stressed out of their minds, and wanted to make time every week to see each other. They quickly added Murphy and Jasper, and later Harper and Maya. By now they just pushed tables together in the atrium and the waitstaff would bring pitchers of margaritas. The gang didn’t even need to order.

But this evening, there was a new addition. One that, based on everyone’s reactions, they already knew about. Which put them all on Clarke’s shit-list.

“Guys, this is Bellamy,” introduced Raven, when the intruder finally arrived. He was greeted with a chorus of hellos, but Clarke chose to take a gulp of her margarita instead. She was petty that way.

“Be nice,” Harper adominished her, poking Clarke in the side and making her choke on the sip. She started coughing spectacularly, drawing the attention of the entire table.

Clarke flushed. “I’m fine,” she insisted, though the residual half-coughs didn’t quite dispel concern.

“Hey Bellamy, you’re an English teacher, right?” Monty piped up, distracting from Clarke’s calamity.

“Um, history actually,” Bellamy corrected, taking a seat -conveniently, she rolled her eyes- right next to Clarke. “I teach the Ancient Civilizations and European History courses at Boston Latin.”

“Figures,” Clarke snorted under her breath. Only a complete history nerd would be able to converse in Latin.

“And they don’t pay you enough that you don’t have to work at Dropship?” Monty continued, glossing over her grumblings.

“It’s still public school, man. I do my best. And I have to pay for my sister’s tuition, which isn’t cheap,” Bellamy added.

Monty and Bellamy devolved quickly into a conversation about early chemistry in Europe, so Clarke was able to turn to Harper and Murphy and basically forget Bellamy’s existence. She happily ignored him while Murphy explained the latest machinations of the senatorial campaign he was working on and Harper bubbled with excitement about the new exhibit at the MFA.

“And we have a whole room of new Sargents that have never been displayed together,” Harper gushed.

“What about that portrait that was in the restoration lab?” Clarke asked. She loved art. Had she not been raised by, well, _her mother_ , she would have become an art conservationist. One of the great joys of Monty dating Harper was that she befriended Clarke and they could geek out about brushstroke structure together.

Harper stopped mid-reach for guacamole, her mouth open wide in shock. “Oh my god, Clarke you will _not_ believe what they found in the x-rays. I was helping draft the press release this morning. Under the top layer of the Gerhardt portrait--”

“--Was the first drafts of two other famous Cole landscapes, right?” Bellamy interjected, having at some point started eavesdropping on Clarke and Harper’s conversation. Clarke narrowed her eyes a fraction. This was her quality art time with Harper. He had already shared her fluency in Latin, and now he had come for her love of 19th century painters.

Harper, however, was thrilled. “Yes! How did you hear about that?”

“The press release,” returned Bellamy, grinning in a way that almost made Clarke go wobbly. It didn’t though. His boyish crooked smiles had no effect on her.

“You read that?” Harper melted, starting an uncharacteristic giggle that was unheardof for present company. Clarke rolled her eyes.

“ _Mentula_ ,” she muttered, going for another sip of her margarita. Yes, it was immature to call him a penis, but when normally-strong Harper started giggling, all bets were off.

Bellamy’s eyes snapped to her. He raised one of his eyebrows in clear mockery. If Clarke had looked away, she would have seen the entire table stop their conversations to witness the standoff. She would have seen Harper mouth “ _mentula_?” at Monty, who gave a “ _fuck if I know_ ” shrug. She would have seen Raven shimmy with delight at their chemistry, elbowing an unenthused Murphy repeatedly in the side. She would have seen Jasper, bless his dear little heart, completely oblivious to his surroundings, staring deeply into his margarita like reading tea leaves. If she had looked away. But she didn’t.

She held his stare with poise and determination and a little bit of petulance, while his eyes glinted with amusement. He was enjoying this, she realized. He enjoyed their Latin repartee and was egging her on. Clarke broke eye contact and scoffed. She wasn’t going to play into his weird games.

The whole table let out a breath they didn’t realize they were holding. Bellamy chuckled.

“Is she always like this?” he asked the group, taking a sip of his margarita.

“Yes,” Murphy responded, a little too quickly for Clarke’s taste. Raven smacked his arm.

“Good,” Bellamy smiled, going back to his conversation with Monty and Raven.

Clarke wasn’t sure what it was about that response. _Good_. Perhaps she should be insulted by the machismo of it all. Perhaps she should be annoyed that he was so calm with her already, when his mere existence was making her unravel.

Instead, she felt a small smile pull at the corners of her mouth, and she turned back to Harper to ask her about the Cole x-rays. And in the middle of one of Harper’s long-winded responses about alkaline paint, she snuck a glance at Bellamy over the salted rim of her glass.

He was looking at her too.  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the wait friends! I've been too busy to write. Here's hoping I update a bit more often.
> 
> For Lauren, as always.
> 
> Kudos and Review, friends. I hope you liked it!


	3. Starting Barfights

After that Clarke started to unclench. She allowed herself to relax and enjoy her friends, which now inexplicably seemed to include Bellamy. It was completely foreign to consider that she hadn’t even known him forty-eight hours prior. He immediately seemed a fixture among the group structure, uniquely understanding Murphy’s love of heist movies and Jasper’s endearing story-vomit.

It was later in the evening when Bellamy offerred to go to the bar and pick up another set of margarita pitchers. Murphy surprisingly offerred to accompany him, and as soon as they left the table Harper and Raven pounced.

“You’ve hit that, right?” Harper asked, cutting the bullshit immediately. Clarke blinked in confusion, chip full of salsa halfway to her mouth.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Bellamy. Blake. You’re so into it,” rephrased Harper, and Clarke was so stunned she didn’t know how to respond.

She needn’t have worried though, as she was saved from answering by Raven.

“She isn’t,” Raven corrected with just a hint of smugness in her grin.

This caused Harper to return to Clarke with something resembling indignation.

“You’re not? Are you kidding me? That man is like liquid sex drizzled on a hot fudge sundae, C--” at which point Monty huffed in annoyance, to which Harper amended, “--and were I not in a committed and _loving relationship_ with my perfect partner--” at which point Monty rolled his eyes and took another bite of quesadilla rather than respond to the utter nonsense happening at the other end of the table, “--I would be climbing that man like a tree,” Harper finished, at a slightly lower volume.

“Oh, believe me, she does want to. She’s just being a moron,” Raven cackled, taking entirely too much pleasure in Harper’s acknowledgement..

“No-fucking-kidding,” Harper snorted, which earned her an elbow from Clarke. “If I had that voice at my disposal, I’d be listening to him recite the dictionary instead of chilling with you losers.”

Monty harumphed again and Harper set to soothing his bruised ego, no doubt planning several future occasions to utilize Monty’s voice. Clarke rolled her eyes and was forced to turn to Raven, who continued to look like the cat that caught the canary.

“Do you mind?” Clarke asked.

“Oh me?” responded Raven innocently. “I’ve just remembered I was going to crash with Murphy tonight because of a lab I’m running in Cambridge tomorrow morning, so if you happened to have any guests over I wouldn’t… _hear_ them.”

“Rae, don’t you dare start on your sneaky plan bullshit, I swear to god--”

But Clarke wouldn’t know if Raven truly was “starting on her sneaky plan bullshit” at that moment, or even what the ultimate aim of Raven’s machinations were, as a loud commotion erupted inside the restaurant near the bar.

“Jesus, Murphy, this is the last time we let you be in the general public,” Raven muttered, heading for the door to check it out. Clarke was still a little annoyed at Raven’s insinuation of her evening plans, which in _no way_ included a man by the name of Bellamy being in her apartment, so she trailed behind. She hoped that in between helping separate Murphy from the rabble she would have time to give Raven a piece of her mind. She could date (or not) who and when she wanted.

“It’s a miracle his candidates let him interact with voters,” Monty chimed in, joining them as they headed inside. It was easy to manage, merely following the sounds of yelling and thwacks of punches.

Once they reached the bar, however, the tableau told a different story.

Jonathan Taylor Murphy, Esquire, was not throwing punches, or getting into an argument with the bartender, as they expected. Nor was he emphatically explaining the nuances of the Sox bench to a punk in a blazer and tie after knocking said punk to the ground, as Raven and Clarke had found him many a time. He was, in fact, pinning the arms of Bellamy Blake behind his back to keep the insensed man from launching at the guy across the room. Bellamy was wrenching himself left and right to try to break Murphy’s hold on him to reach the man across from him.

By Clarke’s count, the other man was eleven feet tall. He was wearing a henley that showed off his killer biceps, which Clarke was certain could be used to squeeze juice from oranges if utilized correctly. He had a neck tattoo and a full sleeve of beautiful designs, though the particular shapes were obscured by his own insistent movement against the bartender’s arms holding him back. Both he and Bellamy looked a little beat up from the punches that had landed before they were pulled apart, but the most interesting thing about the two big, angry men was the petite woman between them.

She had the same sharp jawline and strong brow as the man standing on one side of her, but Clarke had never seen the fury blazing in her eyes in Bellamy’s before. Her walnut hair was straight out of a shampoo commercial, whipping around her as she tried to calm both men simultaneously.

“Bell, are you kidding me?” she yelled at Bellamy, pointing her finger right in his face. Bellamy didn’t respond but talked over her head at the man across the room.

“She’s eighteen, you perv!” he shouted, still struggling against Murphy’s grip.

“ _Nineteen_ ,” the woman corrected, poking him hard in the chest. “He’s not forty, Bell. Lincoln’s the TA in my photography class this semester.”

“I meant no disrespect,” the other man-- _Lincoln?_ \-- called, choosing this moment to jump in. “I just invited her to have a drink and talk about--”

No one would ever know what it was they were going to talk about, because Bellamy finally broke free of Murphy’s arms and flew across the room to throw a roundhouse at the man’s face. It connected with a sickening crunch and he was hauled back out of range, but not before Lincoln got a stomach punch and an upper cut in.

“Bellamy, what the hell?” the woman hollered, pushing him back into a chair. “Stop it. Now. You’re done. You’re drunk and being the overbearing asshole you promised you wouldn’t--”

“I never promised that, O,” Bellamy mumbled, words slurring from a split lip.

O turned to Murphy, still holding him down. “Did he come here with you?”

“More or less,” Murphy shurgged, never willing to commit too much to anything.

“Can you get him out of here? I’m afraid he’s going to do something stupid.”

“Sure thing,” snorted Murphy, and Bellamy sagged in defeat as he slung an arm over Murphy’s shoulder and allowed him to shuffle him back out to the patio. Monty tucked under Bellamy’s other arm to help maneuver and Raven and Clarke followed, forming a squad not unlike the entourage of a boxing champ.

As they crossed the threshold back onto the patio, Clarke heard Murphy mutter, “Who the hell even is that chick?”

Bellamy sighed, a slight chuckle huffing under his breath. “That would be Octavia.”

* * *

“We have to call your mom,” Raven insisted.

“Absolutely not. It’s almost midnight. There is no way I’m calling my mother,” Clarke retorted. The two were facing off for the second time tonight, this time in the kitchen of Bellamy’s Fenway apartment. Murphy and Monty had basically hauled him back to his apartment on the T, with Harper and Jasper offerring extra support, though Jasper could barely help himself at the moment. His margarita consumption hit him right on schedule as it did every time they held Marg Monday, meaning Harper ended up helping him more than the guys hauling Bellamy. And perhaps most predictably, Bellamy, Raven, and Clarke had spent the whole journey home arguing about what to do.

Bellamy looked a mess. He had a deep gash on his eyebrow that had dripped down the side of his face, a split lip that had him spitting red, and a few split knuckles from his last punch at Lincoln. That was just what Clarke could see. She would bet that closer examination would reveal at least one of his ribs to be cracked, and there was no telling what bruises would present themselves if she got his shirt off. Not that she was at all thinking about taking off his shirt. Or any other articles of clothing.

At first, Clarke had been firm. He needed medical attention. She tried fruitlessly to get him to go to urgent care, but he resisted.

“We need to take you to a hospital,” asserted Clarke. “I think you need stitches.”

“My insurance doesn’t start until next month,” he explained. “I can’t afford the bills.”

“You need _stitches_ ,” Clarke repeated slower, as if the speed was what confused him.

“I’ll be _fine_ ,” Bellamy answered, in a tough-guy way that made Clarke narrow her eyes.

Which is how they ended up here. Bellamy sitting at his table wincing as Raven and Clarke debated calling her mother, while the whole crew looked on.

“You said he needed stitches, Clarke. Your mom can help. She gave Jasper that concussion test two weeks ago,” Raven insisted.

Clarke waved her off. “That’s because Jasper’s her favorite. And it wasn’t a weeknight. Or past midnight. Or a complete stranger. No offense,” she amended in Bellamy’s direction. He barely moved, making a sound that vaguely resembled a snort. That made her grin, despite the circumstances. It was only when Raven caught her small smile that she returned to her serious face. “I’m not calling my mother.”

“Then honey,” Raven replied, taking a little too much joy in the situation, “you know what you have to do.”

A silent look passed between them, before Clarke sighed. “Fine.”

“What?” Jasper asked looking between the two of them, concerned yet perpetually clueless. “What does she need to do?”

“Jasper, chill,” Raven snapped, but he continued.

“What do you mean she needs to do something? What is she gonna do?”

Truly, Jasper was usually a smart person. Clarke would swear upon an appropriate saint in confirmation, but Jasper was smart. He had a rad coding brain and was creating an algorithm to facilitate crop irrigation in drought communities, and would basically be running his own startup within five years. But Jasper’s smart brain wasn’t always connected to his drunk brain, which meant as soon as he got a sip of margarita in him, he was dancing on pool tables singing “Sweet Caroline” and unable to follow basic conversations.

Rather than attempt to answer Drunk-Jasper, Clarke got down to business, taking firm hold of the hem of Bellamy’s shirt and starting to pull it over his head.

“Whoa, whoa, _whoa_ ,” Bellamy responded, pushing away her arms and trying unsuccessfully to keep his shirt on, “if you want a look at this you’ve got to buy me dinner first, princess.” She could hear just the slightest twinge of uncertainty or, dare she say it, _bashfulness_ under all that bravado. It was interesting, at least. His abs might be hot, but it seemed he wasn’t a complete cocky bastard.

Clarke let go of his hem and folded her arms across her chest, eyebrow raised skeptically. “You won’t go to the hospital to get checked out, which is where you absolutely should be after getting into a barfight, so I’m pretty sure _Obi-Wan, I’m your only hope_. I’ve been trained by my mother, an award-winning trauma surgeon. I’m not certified by any means, but I won’t kill you and I can fix you up, at least so you don’t look like you had a run-in with a meat tenderizer. I am going to do my best to make sure you end up okay, but that requires some assistance on your part. Now take off your damn shirt.”

A look of shock blinked across his face, but before Clarke could study it, it was gone, replaced by cool determination. Bellamy silently reached behind his head to pull off his shirt, in that frustratingly sexy way that only men seem to take off their shirts, and threw it at the couch across the room. She gasped, but not from the muscles. Or the hotness, or the casual shirt throw.

His chest looked shit. There were big blooming bruises starting to show on his right side. It definitely looked like cracked ribs. _Double shit._

Clarke’s eyes roamed over his chest and face and arms, tallying up injuries and trying not to get stuck on the ridges of his pecs or corded veins on his forearm. She was going to be a professional, or at least, the closest thing a non-registered-trauma-nurse could get to professional. Once she was certain what she needed to do, she grabbed a reciept from her bag and started scribbling.

“Harper and Monty, take Jasper home. He’s pretty drunk and we all know he’s not going to be any help,” Clarke instructed while jotting down the necessary items before ripping the list in half. “Remember, if he locked himself out, we left that hide-a-key rock under the creaky floorboard on his porch. Rae and Murphy, I need you to go to the Walgreens on the corner.” She handed Murphy the list, pointing out things as she went. “These can be generic, and those too, but everything else needs be on-brand. And take my card. I might not be calling my mother, but Dr. Griffin is always willing to pay for first aid supplies.”

“Got it,” Murphy grumbled, never quite willing to take orders from people. _Besides Emori_ , Clarke supposed, but now was not the time.

Clarke handed the second list to Raven. “The usual, okay?”

“Yea, okay,” Raven answered, picking up Abby’s credit card from Clarke’s wallet and dragging Murphy out the door. Harper and Monty followed soon after, hefting a tipsy Jasper. For the first time in several hours, there was silence.

Clarke took a deep breath, soaking in the brief calm around her absent all her friends. She loved them all, but she also loved quiet occasionally. And when she was two margaritas into a Marg Monday with the prospect of doing some serious first aid on the horizon, she really needed a quiet moment. Having moderately recharged and sobered a little, she turned back to Bellamy.

 _I should not have taken his shirt off_ , Clarke regretted immediately. Sure, she needed to see the extent of his injuries, but now she was alone in the apartment of a hot, Latin-fluent, Art-history bartender not wearing a shirt. Who, despite some severe injuries, could still get it.

“How are you doing?” she asked dumbly.

Bellamy chuckled, but it had a little wheeze to it. “I’ve had better nights.”

“Such as?”

“None immediately come to mind, but I’m sure I’ve had them.”

This made Clarke laugh despite herself, easing into the chair next to him. There was something calming in his speech that relaxed her. She found herself edging toward familiarity with this person she didn’t really know.

“Really? None at all?” she teased, and was rewarded with a warm smile.

“What’s your usual?” asked Bellamy, stretching his shoulders as if testing his injuries.

“What?”

“Your usual. The list you gave Raven,” he clarified, flashing his smile again. “Do you usually patch guys up on a Monday night?”

“You’ll find out soon enough,” Clarke answered coyly, enjoying the charm he was directing at her. “Safe to say, this wasn’t the plan when we started the night, so I need reinforcements.”

“A woman of mystery.”

“Says the man who got into a barfight with a stranger.”

Bellamy stuttered, “I wasn’t, I didn’t, she’s--”

“--your sister,” finished Clarke, and for the second time that night Bellamy’s eyes lit up in surprise.

“Yeah, how did you--”

“She looks just like you,” she snorted. “It wasn’t rocket science. And she called you Bell. I can’t imagine you letting anyone but a sister call you Bell.”

He grinned. “Yeah, guess not. You know, I’m not usually like this--”

Clarke cut him off. “Bullshit.”

“Excuse me?” A little bit of that hotshot bluster crept back into his physicality, but Clarke could _so_ see through it.

She continued as if he hadn’t even interrupted. “Your face in the bar when Murphy was holding you back? That is the face of an overbearing, overinvolved big brother if ever I saw one. Wells had the same face ages fourteen to the present. You might not usually get into barfights for Octavia, but you are a textbook big brother.”

To that he had no response, all his tough attitude punctured by her correct observations.

“What, no comeback? Even in Latin?” she prodded, teasing.

“You know, my mom let me name her. My sister,” he amended, smiling fondly. “Emperor Agustus of Rome? He had--”

“--A sister,” Clarke finished, amusement glinting in her eyes. “You really have always been this much of a nerd, haven’t you?”

Bellamy scoffed at the thought. “No, I’m just interested in Ancient Cultures, I like trying to, you know it’s not quite--”

“Good,” she said, cutting him off again and parrotting his answer from earlier that night. He grinned back and they ended up staring at each other like idiots. It was inconcieveable that the Cole painting conversation had happened earlier that night. Carke felt like she was in a different timeline from that moment. There was no way that she had scoffed at him five days ago at Grounders. Her life had propelled forward to the point that his smile was magnetic and his arms ached to be held. Even beat to shit sitting at his kitchen table, Clarke felt like she needed to touch him, fake-medical-professionalism be damned.

“Clarke,” Bellamy started, but at that moment Raven & Murphy crashed through the door with armfuls of bags, busting any kind of chemistry they had been growing. Clarke immediately deflated, the moment lost, but a second glance at Bellamy proved it was far from over. He had the same magnetic gaze as before, with an added edge that Clarke could swear was hunger.

“Alright, who’s ready to get stitched up?” Raven grinned, raising the bags in her hand in triumph and tossing the Taco Bell bag in her direction. She caught it easily.

“What’s with the Taco Bell?” Bellamy asked, suspicious.

Clarke only laughed, digging into the bag to grab one of the bean burritos. “I was two margaritas in when you decided to start a barfight. If you want me to have straight stitches, you’re going to need me sober. Or at least, _more_ sober. Thus, the Taco Bell.”

Bellamy turned to Raven. “Is it too late to head to the emergency room?”

Raven smirked. “You’ll be fine, champ. I got some extra tequila for you in the bag.”

“Bellamy,” Clarke said seriously, “I don’t have to do this. You said you couldn’t afford it. I know I can do it, but I’m not going to strap you down or anything. You’ve got to trust me.”

She was an idiot for saying this. Clarke had never felt more vulnerable than in this moment. She couldn’t have felt more laid bare than if she ripped out her own heart and handed it to him. She was being a complete idiot over someone she just met, and yet she knew her trust was earned. All it took was a warm smile from his face and three words from his crooked, bleeding mouth.

“I know,” he answered slowly, “ _I trust you_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the read!
> 
> Kudos & Review please, they're better than a cup of hot cocoa or a round of margaritas on a Monday.
> 
> For Lauren, as always.


	4. Drawing Constellations

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It has taken an age, and I'm so very sorry. Life's been a bear. Here's the next installment. For Lauren, obvi.

“Shit!”

“I’m almost done.”

“Dammit, hurry up.”

“There,” Clarke answered, leaning back from her impossibly close position to Bellamy’s knuckles. She had patched up his face and ribs fairly easily, and all things considered, it was a fairly pleasant experience. It didn’t hurt that now she knew way too much about his bare body, like the hypnotizing scar above his lip and the constellations of freckles that covered every _inch_ of his visible skin. A couple of pieces of surgical tape had sorted the gash on his eyebrow, and some wrapping helped ease his ribs, but they had reached the point in the evening that no one was looking forward to.

Because of Bellamy’s roguishly-ambidextrious fighting, he had two split knuckles on each hand. That meant four separate wounds to be stitched closed, at two stitches apiece. So far for his left hand, Bellamy had been a model patient.

“Jesus-fucking-Christ, Clarke, are you done yet?”

“Don’t you raise your voice at me. You’re the one who got into a barfight,” Clarke snapped, reaching to take another bite of her bean burrito. He stretched his arms out, presumably sore from sitting in a weird position for too long. This only served to flex his muscles into Clarke’s personal space, nearly spit-taking her food in the process. It was completely unfair to be presented with such a specimen while she was a little tipsy. Now it would be harder to remember the experience after the fact. No matter what dudebro personality was attached to the body, she still wanted to fondly recall his rippling pectorals.

She would have been self-conscious about staring at his still-shirtless body, or at least would have been worried about being caught ogling her patient, but Raven and Murphy were gone, long-since abandoned the two of them to sleep. True friendship, that’s what that was. Raven even winked on her way out the door, which earned her a Griffin Scowl.

“Fine,” grumbled Bellamy, somehow managing to give off the slouchy teenage vibe without moving his hand from Clarke’s grasp. “That burrito can’t be sterile, though.”

Clarke grabbed the scissors from the table and leaned back towards his hand. When her mother had trained her on these kinds of stitches -- on a chicken cutlet, don’t be ridiculous -- Clarke had used a standing magnifier. Without the zoom, she had to get stupidly close to his hand to knot and cut the threads, and the waning alcohol still in her system was not helping. At this distance, she found out that his freckles were not just splashed all over his chest and face, but all over his hands as well.

On his right hand above her current work there was a cluster that looked exactly like a constellation, though she was having the damnest time trying to remember which one it was. As she worked on the stitches, it continued to bug her. Why couldn’t she think of it? It had a section called the “fishhook”, and that had to be distinctive. This wasn’t _Moana_ , for Christ’s sake.

And she _should_ know it. In addition to the Latin lessons, the Jaha men had also imparted a love of the night sky when Clarke was in her formative years. With Wells several years older, she would basically follow him around like a puppy - something her mother still liked to tease her about - so what Wells liked, Clarke liked. And Wells liked the night sky. She used to sit on the bed of Wells’ pickup truck in the hill-country of Massachusetts growing up, stars much brighter there than in the haze of Boston. It annoyed Uncle Thelonius to no end that Wells so loved his beatup pickup, but it was something Wells bought with his own money after years of saving for his sixteenth birthday. Wells drove that dump well past its life expectancy-- through high school, college, _and_ law school, only giving up when the Cambridge roads proved too tough for sweet old Fern. It was for the best, of course, as New York City was not kind to pickup trucks, but Wells had been bereft at her towing back in 2014. He practically held a wake. But Fern was the best for stargazing.

They would sneak out of their respective houses and go, riding out into the hills in search of a park to lay out. Wells’ truck bed would be layered with blankets and pillows and Clarke had a thermos of (in later years deeply spiked) hot cocoa they shared between them. Clarke loved to listen to him chatter on about this star and that galaxy. From the way Wells revered the stars, she should have been able to recognize the constellation immediately, but she couldn’t. And it was annoying the fuck out of her.

Helpfully for Clarke, worrying about a constellation kept her from worrying about doing stitches on an actual human, or being semi-tipsy, or ogling the shirtless man before her. Before she knew it, she was still trying to pull the name from her subconscious while snipping the last threads from his hand. Having finished her work, it would be weird to keep holding onto him, so she dropped Bellamy’s hand, staring back at him. He was a little out of focus, her brain still working overtime to try and remember. It was bugging her so much she didn’t care that she had a semi-vacant stare. She probably looked like a crazy drunk lady, which at the current moment, she was. In her defense.

“Done,” Clarke mumbled, setting down the tweezers and snips. Bellamy looked up from his hand and met her gaze, his head tilted in confusion.

“What do I--”

“No, sorry,” she interrupted, eyes still refusing to focus as her brain slowed, still staring at him. Blinking didn’t help, squinting didn’t help, she was just blankly staring at a hot (practically) stranger. “It’s just my--”

“You’d turn someone to stone with that gaze,” he smirked, and something clicked.

“Perseus!” she exclaimed, snapping immediately into focus and unintentionally slapping herself in the face.

Now she was definitely freaking him out, she could tell. Normal people didn’t yell Greek names at perfect strangers at two in the morning. But how does one explain that they yelled because they were so intently admiring someone’s freckles they formed them into constellations? One doesn’t, that’s how.

“I, um, on your hand. I couldn’t remember the constellation,” started Clarke. _I guess I’m going to try to anyway._ “They’re Perseus. I couldn’t remember until now.”

“...What?”

That didn’t work, obviously. She scrambled into her purse and produced a pen, grabbing his right hand back and connecting his freckles into the constellation Perseus. Clarke looked up into his furrowed eyes. “See?”

For a moment Bellamy’s quizical brow remained, staring intently at the back of his own hand as if seeing it for the first time. Suddenly, he pulled his hand close to his face, eyes wide.

“Oh, yeah. I see it.” That was not what she was expecting. He was being way too chill about this.

“You see it? Bellamy, this is the _coolest fucking thing_!” Above their heads, a pair of warning stomps echoed from the ceiling.

“I get it, I see it,” he repeated, and Clarke got the sneaking impression that he was humoring her drunk ass.

She huffed, grabbing his hand again for emphasis. “You are the biggest Classics nerd I have ever goddamn met. You even throw shade in Latin, and you don’t think this is cool?”

When he looked at her again, his smirk had been overtaken with a boyish grin, lopsided and warm. She suddenly became self-conscious of holding his hand, the heat from her face, and his still-shirtless torso.

Another pound came from upstairs, which Clarke sympathized with. It was practically Tuesday morning at this point. If it was possible, her cheeks flushed more. She dropped his hand.

“You’re getting in trouble with your neighbors. I’m gonna go,” she told him, slinging her bag over her shoulder and starting to look at Lyft pricing. The Green Line had stopped running hours ago, so a car was her only way home.

Clarke was almost at the door when he stopped her.

“Clarke, wait.” He grabbed her hand. “T’s not running.”

“I know,” she mumbled. “I was gonna take a Lyft.”

“It’s really late. Just crash here and you can take the train back in the morning.”

She was stunned. “I don’t want to be a pain--”

“It’s not, really. It’s really fucking late. Just crash here,” he insisted, taking her by the shoulders. Clarke wavered for a moment, but her exhaustion won out.

“Fine.” Looking to her left at the hand on her shoulder, she couldn’t help but smile at the squiggly drawing she put there, connecting his funky little dots into a Greek hero. “Where should I crash?”

At that Bellamy went silent and stuttered, “Um, oh, shit. I didn’t think about that. The only person who ever stays over is O, and she just crashes on my bed with me but--”

“The couch is fine,” she interjected, desparately trying to save him from his own gentlemanly awkwardness.

“No!” he jumped. “I’ll take the couch.”

“Don’t be stupid,” snorted Clarke. “I just spent the last couple hours fixing up your body. I won’t let you destroy it by sleeping on a lumpy Goodwill sofa.”

“I will have you know it’s from Pier One.”

Clarke rolled her eyes. “Whatever.”

She advanced toward the couch, assessing how to get the least-crappy-night’s sleep on it, when Bellamy whirled her around to face her again. “Wait!”

“What?”

Bellamy mumbled something incoherent.

“Bellamy, what?” she repeated.

“We can just share,” he told her. Clarke’s body froze up. _What?_

“I beg your pardon?”

“Shit, Clarke,” Bellamy huffed, a big exhalation punctuating her name. “It’s basically morning, and I have to be up so soon for school. Just share with me, and I’ll be gone in a couple hours. It’s not a big deal.”

Clarke wanted to stress to him that it very much was a big deal, that this was the kind of thing for blood sisterhoods and cousin sleepovers, not flirty aquaintances. That the only reason she was considering it was sheer exhaustion, but she had absolutely one condition. Non-negotiable.

“You need to put on a shirt.”

He laughed. A big, chesty laugh with vibrato and warmth, fueled by adrenaline and some _much earlier_ margaritas.

“Why, princess? Worried you’ll find all of this--” he offerred a shimmy in explanation, shoulders quaking with laughter “--too much without a barrier.”

“No,” Clarke blustered in response. “I just think you-- I mean you shouldn’t just waltz around--”

“It’s fine,” Bellamy cut her off, grabbing his henley from earlier this evening and pulling it over his head. Doing so flexed every single visible muscle on his arms and torso, which seemed a little extra to Clarke, but her sleep-delirious brain was no longer responsive.

“Goodnight, Bellamy,” she sighed, turning towards the bed across the room in his studio apartment and flopping down, falling asleep almost immediately.

It may have been the sheets. With the advance of the cooler months, some Martha Stewart-wannabe had made the bed with insanely soft flannel sheets--possibly Bellamy himself, though the implications of such an idea were not to be considered. There had to be a memory foam topper under the flannel sheets, and his pillow was like a cloud. A cozy, marshmallow cloud. Against her will she nuzzled into the pillow and comfy sheets, nesting like a puppy for the night and pulling his comforter around her. She may have been tired, but this was the kind of bed she wanted to live in all the time.

Clarke wafted away to dreamland quickly, but not before hearing a searing baritone say, “goodnight, princess. Sleep tight.”


	5. Eating Morning-After Waffles

Clarke Griffin started to wake at eight am on a Tuesday, only five and change hours after she went to sleep. There were a few moments, however fleeting, before she awoke, when she lived between unconscious and conscious, and the slips of dreamland swirled with the information from her senses. Her first piece of information was the softness of the bed, the cozy way that only flannel can be, and the warmth under covers that only comes from a night asleep. It was much warmer under the sheets than she was used to-- she was used to the drafty wheezes of her Dorchester apartment, where the cold in the floorboards sunk into her bones, no matter the season. But this, this was like being back at her mother’s house, or Uncle Thelonius’, where she always woke up warm and snuggled in.

In an unconscious attempt to prolong the near-sleep warmth, Clarke burrowed and nuzzled her way into the pillow under her head, pulling the pile of thick blankets back up to her chin. If she didn’t open her eyes, she wouldn’t have to deal with the world. She took a deep breath and was overtaken with the smell of the sheets. They were musky, manly,  _ charming _ . How a set of sheets can smell  _ charming _ , Clarke would never be able to explain, but it was true. It was that particular scent that finally started to wake her up.

_ Why hadn’t her alarm gone off? Shouldn’t the garbage truck have rolled by her window yet? Where was she? How had she gotten here? _

The previous evening’s antics flooded back like a groundswell, and she threw the blankets and sheets off, sitting straight up in bed.  _ His bed _ , she reminded herself.

But it was silent. It was a studio apartment, so there weren’t many places to hide. And no one was around. A quick look down assured her that she was still wearing all of her clothes from last night, and on instinct Clarke crossed herself in thanks before clambering out of the twisted sheets. It took a few guesses before she was able to successfully find her phone, after which she checked it for the time.

“Nine a.m.?” she exclaimed, quickly shuffling around the room to put on her shoes and jacket. She should not have slept this long. She had exactly an hour to be at her Tuesday morning art lesson. 

In her gap year as she was prepping for law school, Clarke was attempting to build her extracurricular resume, creating and executing an arts and art appreciation program in Boston schools. Four days a week she was at a different school, teaching Impressionism or Pointilism to moderately-unwilling public school students. Today, her class was at ten-fifteen, which meant she did not have time to go back to her apartment.  _ Thank god Raven talked me into those oxfords and tights last night. _ A quick sweep into the bathroom approved her general appearance, though she tucked her hair into a bun and prayed her ensemble would come off as artistic rather than sloppy.

It was pure happenstance, perhaps pure fate, that Clarke whisked past the kitchen counter on her way out the door. Had she not, she would have missed the most enigmatic surprise of the morning awaiting her.

Waffles. Fresh, honest-to-goodness,  _ waffles. _ The high-end, round Belgian kind with big pockets for toppings, not the floppy squares of your Aunt Stacy’s Seventies contraption. Stacked three high with a seductive drizzle of syrup dripping down the sides and a picture-perfect pat of butter adorning the top.

Clarke, it should be noted, is a food person. She has never met a taco she didn’t like, a pad siew she couldn’t slurp, or a poutine she wouldn’t shove in her face. Not the best cook, or even what most humans would even call  _ a _ cook, but she was a connosieur of the best-tasting food anywhere. The quickest way to her affection, most of her friends and family had found, was her stomach, as terribly cliche as it was. 

But her deepest affection was for breakfast food. There was an old-timey diner down the street from her apartment that was her favorite restaurant in the world. They even knew her by name, both “Clarke” and “the crazy breakfast lady”. Clarke dragged Raven’s ass out of bed each Saturday morning without fail and the two had early bird breakfast in sweats and hoodies. If you ordered before seven, you got a five-dollar farmer’s breakfast, complete with eggs, bacon, hash, and your choice of toast, pancakes, or waffles. She always chose the waffles.

After the night she had, the last thing Clarke would have expected was a glorious platter of crispy, golden waffles sitting on Bellamy’s counter, but perhaps the  _ absolute _ last thing she would have expected was the note accompanying them.

_ Clarke, Waited as long as I could, but I had to run to school. Can’t keep the kids waiting. If I don’t teach those kids Latin, who else will help me ressurect dead languages? The waffles are for you. Thanks for patching me up. -Bell _

Now, Clarke didn’t have time to unpack  _ all _ of that, but she acknowledged the key points and saved the rest for her train ride. Namely, her grumbling stomach told her she needed to eat these waffles now. She dropped her bag and picked up the fork and knife, ready to dig in, when she noticed a bit on the bottom of the paper, a scribbled afterthought.

_ P.S. Coffee’s in the pot. Travel mugs are in the cabinet. _

“Oh, fuck me,” Clarke blurted, before clapping her hand over her mouth. Jesus, he was perfect. He made her breakfast  _ and _ a pot of coffee? And offering her a travel mug to go? Just take her now.

_ I am so glad Raven is not here to witness this. She wouldn’t be able to shut up with glee _ , she thought.

Not ten minutes later, Clarke was leaving Bellamy’s apartment, second cup of coffee safely poured into a mug and morning note tucked safely into her bag. It would be close, but as long as there weren’t any particularly dreadful delays, she should make it on time to her class, which based on her planner, was out at ...Boston Latin today. A quick maps search had her thanking higher powers for the second time that morning. She could  _ walk _ to the school, with plenty of time to set up and take a coffee pee before her lesson. Wherever her good karma was coming from, she wasn’t about to question it.

It was a picturesque walk to Boston Latin from Bellamy’s apartment. Between the two was the MFA gardens, so Clarke basked in the glow of the morning sun through the trees as she made her way. Usually she took the E train and came from the other direction, missing the pretty views. The walk totally calmed her from her dramatic morning, allowing her to contemplate Bellamy’s enigmatic note.

He waited for her? To wake up? Was that cute, or was that a la  _ Twilight _ ? 

And were the waffles a thank you for the first aid, or some one-night-stand move? She had never been made morning-after breakfast before. How would she tell the difference?

He had offered a travel mug for her coffee. You didn’t just  _ do _ that to any random person. Otherwise, you’d never get it back. Only friends and family were given travel mugs, and even then, not everyone. Monty was not allowed to take another tupperware of leftovers from Clarke’s apartment until he returned the heaps of containers he had neglected to return.

And what was with his signature?  _ Bell _ ? She thought only his sister called him Bell. She didn’t even really know him. Was that him flirting with her? Or was he just nice?

For a moment she contemplated called Raven, but decided against it. Even if Raven wasn’t slammed with her lab this morning, Clarke couldn’t handle the gleeful way that Raven would respond. She could always talk to her later in the apartment, or stop by The Dropship during Raven’s shift. Now was not the time for mooning over men. It was time for art. And education.

With that, Clarke squared her shoulders and walked with purpose. The idyllic, academic spire of Boston Latin had appeared through the trees, and as she closed in on her destination, Clarke took a steeling sip of her coffee and tucked away all her Bellamy Thoughts into a disused corner of her brain. Now was not the time for him.

That plan went well through most of the morning. She had extra time before her first lesson, and was able to pee in peace in the teacher’s lounge because one of the teachers who accepted her program for their class is a kind,  _ kind _ soul. The students, despite the Tuesday drags, were absolutely enthralled with the Seurat paintings she taught, and jumped into the practical project with abandon. At the end of each lesson, she had a flurry of drying pointilist paintings hanging from twine by the windows.

Clarke left her second class of the day with a thousand-watt smile on her face and her arms full of art supplies. It was most students’ lunchtime, so she would be able to set up in the next class with limited distractions, thanks to her next teacher Roma Bragg, who always gave her free reign. As she left the stairwell on the third floor, she congratulated herself on getting through even the morning without fretting about Bellamy.

And then she promptly ran into Bellamy Blake.

She didn’t realize it at first. Too focused on reading the classroom signs, trying to remember if Roma’s room was on the right or the left off the North stairwell, she didn’t see a tall presence approach and then slam straight into her.

“...Ow,” Clarke exclaimed, delayed. Her first reaction had been  _ fuck, shit, damn, mother fucker _ , but current surroundings put her childsafe filter on high alert. It was a miracle she didn’t drop or spill her coffee, but her luck ran out when she looked up at the wall of human she ran into an spotted a familiar butterfly closure and characteristic smirk.

“Clarke?” Bellamy asked, not quite believing it himself.

“Bellamy. What are you--” She cut herself off as everything clicked into place. Of course. Last night he said he worked at Boston Latin. How could Clarke have possibly forgotten? Looking down at the travel cup she took from  _ his apartment _ , she found the Boston Latin School crest and the words “BPS <3's their Star Teachers”. How dense was she? And now here she was, the epitome of a stalker-girl, showing up at his school, so much so that she blurted, “I’m not stalking you.”

_ Classy, Clarke _ , she thought, wanting to bury her head underneath her covers once again. Why, oh why, had she even gotten out of bed this morning? Oh right. It wasn’t her bed.  _ Shit. _

Bellamy had the good nature to laugh, but her face kept blooming pink. “I wouldn’t ever suspect, princess.”

“I’m sorry. I meant I have an arts program for elementary kids I teach--”

“-Here at BLS. I know,” he finished. “You’re like a god to the elementary teachers. They get to take an hour break once a week during school hours and be actual humans. They talk about you all the time in the lounge. I just never knew that was you.”

There was a strange warmth eminating from him, something akin to their moments talking about his sister last night. Maybe it was honesty, perhaps it was fondness, but it took Clarke entirely by surprise.

“Yeah,” she stuttered, unable to come up with a more functional response. The teachers liked her program. For boring and unintentional reasons, but all the same-- “For a few months now. I’m hoping to use my program on my law school application.”

“Cool, I suppose. Nice that you’re giving back while stuffing your brain full of useless legal jargon.”

“Hey,” she retorted softly, giving him a shoulder shove as they started down the hallway. “The LSATs are important.”

“Whatever you say. What are you doing wandering the halls during lunch?”

“I’m supposed to be setting up for my next lesson in Roma Bragg’s classroom, but I think I got lost.”

“Roma? She’s just down the way. Near my room, actually.”

Clarke started. “You teach elementary students?”

If he taught the elementary kids, how on  _ earth _ had she not met him yet? Not that she worked with all the elementary teachers. But there was something midly intoxicating about Bellamy leaned over a handful of pigtailed kids at a story corner, telling them about Helen of Troy.

“God no,” Bellamy exclaimed, fitting entirely too much contempt in two little words.  _ So much for that fantasy. _ “Can you imagine? High school. Obviously. But my wing is right by hers, so we grade homework together sometimes. Gives a little perspective, you’d say.”

They reached the end of the hall, and Bellamy indicated to follow him through the double doors, opening the right one in the process. In opening the door to the next hallway, Clarke noticed his hands. Each set of knuckles was covered by a precise amount of medical gauze-- enough to obscure the black stitches on his pointer and middle knuckles, but not so much as to be obtrusive.

“You wrapped your hands,” she noted, and once again he laughed.

“Yeah, I figure bandages are better than open stitches. Otherwise all of my classes today would devolve into whiny pubescent kids asking for horror stories.”

“Smart.”

They fell into silence as they traversed the halls. It was weird, in that they were completely silent, while a cacophany of sounds surrounded them from all sides. It was bright and loud, and yet between the two of them was a soft energy. It was the kind of silence Clarke would like to sit in and enjoy. By the time they reached Roma’s room, she was almost sad to say goodbye.

For the second time in as many days, this struck her so oddly. The number of ridiculous elements to their relationship grew by the minute, and yet Clarke couldn’t seem to care. They had met less than a week ago, flirted in dead languages in one instance, and argued about Impressionist painters in another. She had sewn his actual flesh up after a barfight and drawn constellations on his hand in the same evening, and he had made her waffles and coffee the next morning. There was something about Bellamy. Something good.

“Well, this is Roma’s room,” he told her abruptly.

Clarke laughed. “Yep. I remember it now. Thanks for the help. See you around?”

This was not a special  _ see you around _ . It slipped out before she could stop it, but it was a perfectly innocent, knee-jerk reaction  _ see you around _ .  _ Thanks for the help. I appreciate you. See you around. _ Clarke meant nothing by it. By all accounts, his response should have been something blasé along the lines of  _ “yeah of course, see you around” _ . What she got, was something entirely different.

Bellamy turned to face her, taking her forearms in hand. “Come to Dropship tonight.”

“What?” No neurons were currently firing in Clarke’s brain. A single, vague syllable was the best she could have hoped for.

“Come to Dropship. I’m working tonight, and you can correct me about more Impressionist art.”

“I have to study for my test.”

“Bring your books then. I’ll quiz you on copywright law and you can draw more designs on my hand.”

He could have been joking. But there was something about the earnest quality of his gaze that eased the tension in Clarke’s chest.

“Sure,” was all she managed, a small grin turning her mouth.

“See you then. And Clarke?”

She turned from Roma’s classroom. “Yeah?”

Bellamy winked. “Nice mug.”

With that, he sauntered down the hall in pursuit of his own classroom, and Clarke was left dumbfounded.

“What?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kudos and Review, y'all! They're better than Bellamy Waffles.
> 
> For Lauren, obvi.

**Author's Note:**

> As always, kudos and review. See ya soon!


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